


Cleaner

by emmaliza



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Class Differences, Crack Pairing, Crack Treated Seriously, Emotional Infidelity, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Pre-Way Back, Tragic Mistakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29916225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Del Tarrant is one of the FSA's top pupils, with a bright career in Star Command ahead of him.One day, he spontaneously intervenes to protect one of the academy's janitors from one of his classmates, and everything changes.
Relationships: Olag Gan/Del Tarrant, Olag Gan/Olag Gan's Woman
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7
Collections: The House Always Sins





	Cleaner

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in the Gauda Prime Social Club's fanzine, _The House Always Sins_.

Tarrant has never seen the point of history class. Most of his theory classes, really, he regards as dull, barely listenable slogs through things he could learn much more easily from experience, but he at least sees the relevance. How exactly will knowing how and why the Federation was founded help him fly a ship? It's not like he can undo the past.

As such, he's not exactly in a rush between periods, and so while he's dawdling he observes, idly, Wood pacing the halls with that expression that says he's about to do something obnoxious to keep himself entertained. Tarrant wants to roll his eyes. He has been told he can't be faulted for obnoxiousness himself, but likes to think that's only because he is ambitious, dedicated and driven, prone to get carried away with himself and forget about others, but not one to act on spite.

It takes him a good few seconds more to notice the target of Wood's antipathy, a janitor, minding his own business, scrubbing the floors with a bucket of soapy water, earplugs in. _You'd think the administration could afford something more efficient,_ he thinks just as Wood's foot draws inches from the plastic.

With reflexes that would make his tutors proud, Tarrant takes ahold of the handle, saving it from tipping over at the last second. The janitor looks up. “Careful, Wood,” Tarrant says, grinning in a way that is, admittedly, just a bit smug. “You did see the sign, yes?” He nods toward a placard reading _Wet Floor, Caution._ “It can be dangerous, if a place like this gets too slippery. The administration would not be pleased to have half their trainees out of commission because they fell in their own hallway, would they?”

Wood sneers, clearly displeased to have his little prank not come off, but not well-disposed to admit it. “Yes, well, how lucky they are to have you looking out, keeping us on the straight and narrow.” With one one last glance over Tarrant's shoulder, he walks off in a huff.

Laughing to himself, Tarrant sets the bucket right again, gets to his feet, and is about to oh so reluctantly head to his next class when a voice interrupts him:

“Thank you.”

Tarrant turns around, surprised. But he shouldn't be. Of course, the janitor. He was watching all of that, and no doubt is grateful that someone stopped his work being messed up so he'd have to redo it.

He is taken aback when the janitor gets to his feet. Tarrant doesn't meet many people taller than himself – the difference can't be more than an inch or two, but still. He's not handsome, this man, not in any conventional sense, but he is very... solid looking. Reassuring. Tarrant can imagine any Delta woman would be happy and proud to have him as her husband.

“Really. I mean it.” The man does not _speak_ like a Delta. He articulates every word clear enough to put Tarrant, who has always thought his Alpha pedigree shows in every word he speaks, to shame, but he sounds sincere also, enough to leave Tarrant feeling rubbed raw. “I haven't met many of your type to bother sticking up for a humble janitor.”

For a second the man looks frightened, as if he just said something he shouldn't have. Tarrant is lost for words. In truth, he only did it because he loathed the look on Wood's face; he didn't think about the person he was actually protecting at all, and the sheer earnestness this man treats him with leaves a guilty swirl in his stomach. “Oh, that's quite alright,” he says dismissively. “Wood is a self-absorbed fool, I've been looking for excuses to put him in his place for ages. You've have had to be quite the cunt for me not to want to stick up for you.”

The Janitor, as Tarrant is now apparently referring to him with capital letters, laughs at that, and Tarrant can't help but grin in turn.

“Well. Thank you anyway.” He reaches out and squeezes Tarrant's shoulder. Tarrant stops. The strength in him is apparent from that one tiny move; it runs through his body like a tidal wave. He has not known many Deltas to be brazen enough to just reach out and touch a superior grade – there aren't rules against it our anything absurd like that, it just isn't done – but he doesn't want to complain.

“Well. It was no problem, Mr–” he searches the man's uniform for a nametag or somesuch, but no luck. Regardless, he sticks out his hand to shake, and The Janitor takes it.

“Gan. Olag Gan.”

“Olag. Gan.” Neither sounds quite right on his tongue. Tarrant pulls away. “Well, I'd better go, I'm late for class. I'll see you around?”

He has no reason to believe he'll see more of this janitor than he does any other, but Tarrant has never been the most reasonable of people.

* * *

He shouldn't be surprised, really, that Wood wouldn't let the damn thing go. Tarrant isn't sure he was meant to know about that, really, but he heard his professors whispering before class, and he has always been curious.

Not that there's much need for curiosity when the professor calls him over after class. “Tarrant, a word,” and he waits obligingly.

Major Stranax looks tired. That's probably not a good sign. “One of your classmates informed me about an incident that occurred yesterday.” Tarrant frowns. Has Wood snitched on him? For what? Surely he can't get in trouble for _not_ playing a cruel prank. “He said one of our janitors was stealing Federation property, and you were both witness to it. Is that true?”

_Oh._ Tarrant understands now – Wood has taken his embarrassment out not on him, but on the janitor, who didn't do anything to anyone. The unfairness of it rankles. “No, not in the slightest,” he says. “He was bothering the poor man in the middle of his work, and I stopped him. That's all.”

“I see.” Major Stranax taps two fingers against her chin thoughtfully. “Can I ask you why?”

Tarrant is bemused. “Why not?”

From the beleaguered sigh she gives him, he would wager that was the wrong answer. “Tarrant, it's good to see you're willing to stick up for others when they need defending. That you won't simply let injustice pass to make your own life easier. Those are the ideals of the service, after all, to protect mankind wherever it may find itself, from whatever might threaten it.”

Again, Tarrant feels like he's being given credit he doesn't really deserve. He feels less guilty about it now, though. “But?” he asks, his mouth quirking.

“I just want to warn you,” she tells him, hands against her desk, hazel eyes shining, “not to stick your neck out too far. You're a very talented young man, with a bright future ahead of you. It would be a shame to see you throw all that away because... you don't understand our priorities.”

What Tarrant really doesn't understand is what in the hell she's on about, but he can't help but laugh. “Right, well, thank you for the very useful advice.” This is ridiculous; neither he nor the janitor – Gan – did anything wrong, so why is he being told off? “I'll be sure to defend the vulnerable only to appropriate levels in future.”

“Tarrant–” but he's already out the door, irritation itching under his skin at the thought the vague stabs of selflessness he gets are being watched and measured.

* * *

He can't be surprised, really, to enter his quarters and find them in the middle of being cleaned. That happens every once in awhile. He also can't be surprised that the man doing the cleaning is the same man who has gotten into his and Wood's petty class squabble, because that just feels appropriately dramatic.

“Well, hello,” he says as Gan sweeps the dust from beneath his mattress, not sure if he should acknowledge that he remembers who this man is or not. “Funny to meet you this way. Am I ever going to see you not on your knees?”

That maybe wasn't the most appropriate remark to make, but Gan laughs it off casually. “I'm almost done here, won't take a minute. Sir.” Tarrant frowns, not sure how he feels about being called that. He is in training to be an officer, people will be calling him that all day in his future if he's lucky, but... “It's good we get to see each other again, though. I owe you a thank you.”

Tarrant frowns, not sure what he could possibly have done that this man would need to thank him for. Fortunately, Gan explains: “I heard one of your classmates had gone to the administration, told them I was stealing. But you said it wasn't true, they were only doing that to spite you. If it wasn't for you, I'd probably be out of a job. So thank you.”

A response doesn't come easily, but after a moment Tarrant scoffs. “I mean, Wood is a lying petty pillock. I doubt they would have fired you based just on his word.”

Now standing up ( _my_ is he tall), Gan looks back over his shoulder, squints at him suspiciously. “If you say so.” And Tarrant feels oddly embarrassed, for reasons he doesn't entirely understand. “Anyway, I can't say it's really his fault. He's spent his whole life learning how he's meant to treat people like me. How is he meant to know better?”

Tarrant is bemused. He's never really thought about it like that. “That's very understanding, for a man with whom your only interactions consist of him trying to humiliate you, and when that failed, trying to get you fired.”

Gan smiles at him. “I'm an understanding person.”

Honestly Tarrant cannot say he was expecting this, to find himself struck dumb by this man. He's never been one to lack for words in his own favour, and Gan seems such a simple, earnest person, who could possibly be intimidated by him?

He averts his eyes, inexplicably shy. “Well, ah, you have work to do, I shan't delay you any further.” He shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Honestly, I think I'm done here.” Gan deposits a sponge in his bucket and grabs it, no doubt with somewhere else to be.

Brazenly, Tarrant grabs his arm before he heads out the door. “I don't suppose you actually clean this room on the regular, and I just happen to never have been home to catch you before?” he asks, not entirely sure what he's angling at.

Gan doesn't seem very certain either, but he nods. “Tuesday evenings, usually, just before I finish my shift.” That makes sense. Tarrant is usually busy evenings. The life of an FSA cadet is very much a 'work hard, play hard' sort of thing. “Why?”

For lack of other options, Tarrant flashes his most winning smile. “Well, I might make a point of coming home earlier then, so someone can commend you for the tremendous job you've done. The service would be nothing without people like you to support us, you know.”

Tarrant has just made a commitment, which has never been his strong suit, and he's not sure why it's so important he be around to say hello to this virtual stranger. But Gan laughs. “If you like,” he says, and like that he's gone, leaving Tarrant with a pulse pounding much harder than necessary, and a bad feeling about this.

* * *

It doesn't take long for him to discover the reason for Wood's envy. Indeed, Tarrant can't say he wouldn't be equally petty, under the same circumstances. “I wouldn't beam like that if I were you,” Major Stranax tells him as his grin spreads across the lecture hall. “It's a lot of work you've been signed up for. Hard, boring work. Marking papers and the like. You'll hate us for choosing you in a matter of days, I swear it.”

Oh, Tarrant knows all that – it's a glorified tutor's position, in effect, and teaching has never been something he has a particular talent for. But that's hardly the point. Assistant Officer Lieutenant – his classmates shall have to report to him if they want to act in an official capacity. He's half an officer already. He's all but guaranteed a place on a ship once he graduates, and while he knew logically he was the most likely candidate to be given the position, it's still a thrill to hold the paper proving it in his hands.

It's sheer coincidence he is told this on the next Tuesday.

He paces back and forth in his room, waiting for Gan's arrival, hoping to share the good news. It's stupid really, to be so eager to talk to a man he barely knows, but his family are all back in his dome, and his friends are all busy ruing their being passed over for various positions, he has nobody else to gloat to.

When Gan opens the door, mop in hand, he seems surprised to discover Tarrant is genuinely there, waiting for him. “Hi,” Tarrant says, and then decides he sounds a little too perky, tries to dial back the enthusiasm. “I was afraid you might never show. I don't know your schedule well enough to tell if you're late, but...”

Gan chuckles. “This is about as early as I ever get in, I'm afraid. Cleaning up after a dormitory full of boys your age isn't a task for the fainthearted.”

“Oh, I bet.” Gan is already setting to work, mop in hand, but Tarrant takes that as no reason he should stop talking. “I ah, got some rather exciting news today.” Gan looks up at him, curious, but not overly so. “A new position. Assistant Officer Lieutenant.”

Gan's brows furrow together slightly. Tarrant frowns. That wasn't the reaction he was expecting. “I see,” says Gan, cautiously. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

_Oh._ Well of course a humble janitor would have no idea about the intricacies of Space Command structure. Still, if Tarrant is going to perform this role, he'd best get used to explaining things to people. “Well, at present I'm basically just a teacher, but it's an important appointment nonetheless, it shows they have the me on the shortlist for an officer's posting once I graduate. It's a great honour.”

He expected that clarification would clear things up for Gan, so he could offer his polite congratulations, but instead his brow only knits together tighter. “You're not happy,” Tarrant comments, nervously. A second too late he remembers this man barely knows him, who is he to ask him to be happy for him?

Gan sighs, mop dead still in his hand. “I'm happy for you,” he says. “I'm just.... worried they might not have given you this for the right reasons.”

Tarrant blinks, confused. “And what are the wrong reasons?”

“To make you feel good about yourself?”

He has to laugh. “What, is that a bad thing?”

“No, not necessarily.” Gan has dropped the mop, and is gesturing with his hands as he speaks. He looks like he's struggling to articulate something he's never had to put into words before. Tarrant is fascinated. “It's just... a position like that, it would be easy to let it go to your head. To start thinking you're braver, smarter, more important than your the others. I would hate to see you become one of those officers who thinks he's better than everyone else, so you can do what you like.”

Tarrant stares. For all the qualities he's had praised over the years, he's never been known for his modesty – more than once he's had friends, family, commanders tell him off for being too cocky, too arrogant, too lost in his own dreams and ambitions.

“What makes you think I'm not that already?”

Gan shrugs. “I just don't.”

Tarrant is lost for words again. He doesn't know if she should be insulted or flattered – he feels he's a bit of both. He's received no shortage of compliments in his young life, but somehow this feels like a situation he's never been in before.

Gan places his mop to the side, turning around to face him. “Listen, why don't you come with me tonight?” he asks. “There are some people I'd like you to meet.”

That leaves Tarrant no less dumbfounded. _Yes, whatever you say,_ he thinks instinctively, but he knows that's not a good idea. “Where are you taking me?” he asks, the Federation officer, the one who asks the questions, creeping back into his voice.

He's not sure many people would find Gan's smile reassuring, it's admittedly a little awkward, but for him it just works. “Only to the pub, I'm afraid.” Tarrant blinks. “Uh, where people get together to get drunk. Don't the Alpha grades have pubs?”

“I'm afraid we can get drunk wherever we stand,” Tarrant grins. But he has to take this seriously. It sounds very serious. “But I'm not sure what you say is entirely legal.” He knows there are all sorts of rules about what grades are allowed in what places at what time – unfortunately he's never bothered learning exactly what those rules are, because he's never before worried he's going to break one.

He watches as Gan balls a fist nervously. “No, I don't think it is,” he says, face perfectly open, not trying to hide a thing. “Is that too much for you?”

Tarrant stares at him a moment, then bursts into laughter. “Alright, clearly you've been snooping through my psych profile,” he says, to Gan's dumbfounded expression. “You know I can't resist danger.”

Then Gan laughs in turn. “Alright,” he says. “If I collect you at zero hours, will you be awake?”

Tarrant grins, extends his hand like he's just been introduced to the Supreme Commander herself. “It's a date,” he says before he can think better of it.

* * *

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Sneaking in to the Delta sections of the dome is the sort of thing he and his friends would talk about, but never actually do. It makes sense to be nervous. But Gan doesn't walk like a man sneaking about, he carries himself with the same certainty he always does. Still, he takes Tarrant's question seriously.

“No, not really,” he admits. “You can head back if you like. I'll understand.”

Tarrant scoffs. “Oh come on, it's not like me to back down from a challenge.” Vaguely, he wonders why he has known this man for barely over a week, and yet he still expects him to know him well enough to know he can't resist a dare. “Just tell me when we get there, without you I'm sure I'll be lost in this corridor the rest of my days.”

He follows along, obligingly, until he sees Gan nod toward a vague outline in the dull metal walls and push it open, leaving Tarrant to step out into the light, blinking. He's not sure what he expected the Delta quarters to look like, but it's very much like what he's used to, except less clean. Don't these areas have someone to come along and keep them neat and tidy? They should be on to their local administrator about that.

“Come on, this way.” Gan's heavy hand is wrapped tight around Tarrant's forearm, leading him to wherever he's meant to be, and Gan is strong enough that could well leave a bruise but somehow, he cannot bring himself to mind.

Tarrant keeps following on until they arrive at their destination, yet another metal door that slides open at the appropriate moment, and if he thought it was dark in the corridors, well. He gropes blindly for the walls to keep himself steady, but instead of a wall, he finds Gan's hand, which wraps around his own as he inches forward.

“One step after another, come on.” There are stairs to be descended, Tarrant realises gradually, as he blinks his eyes to try to adjust himself to the darkness. As he does figures start to emerge, men slunk over small tables – some women too, but mostly men – drinking pots of some liquor dark enough Tarrant can hardly tell it from the walls, for the most part paying little attention to the stranger entering their midst. Belatedly, he realises this is not a good idea – but he's never been one to back down because of a silly thing like that.

He hopes it doesn't look too suspicious he keeps clinging to Gan to keep his footing in the dark. “Can no-one here afford the electrics?” he mutters resentfully, and though it's hard to tell, he thinks he sees Gan shoot him a look then.

“Olag.” Another man, clearly smaller than Gan but otherwise, a silhouette indistinguishable from the darkness behind him, comes to lurk beside them, catching Tarrant off-guard a little. He notes how Gan stiffens up, as if he and this man know each other, and neither is very fond. “Haven't seen you in awhile. Who's this?”

Tarrant is perfectly willing to introduce himself, but Gan gets in before he can. “This is Del Tarrant. He's a friend of mine.”

The man looks him up and down warily, and Tarrant cannot tell if the lights have finally kicked up a notch, or if his eyes are just adjusting to the darkness. “Pretty thing, isn't he?” The man says. “Nice and tall, too. Never went hungry a day in your life, did you son?”

Tarrant is nonplussed. Food has been delivered to his rooms, same as any other resident of this dome, as long as he can remember. Who goes hungry nowadays? That sort of thing is what the Federation was founded to put a stop to.

“Leave him alone, Jek.” Gan's hand tightens around his wrist. Tarrant wonders whether he's put himself in a compromising position here, sneaking off to a dingy, hidden meeting pace with an older man, holding on to him like a shuttle in a ship disintegration. Once he's had that thought, it doesn't want to leave. “He's _here_ , isn't he?”

That sounds like it means something, but Tarrant cannot say what. To be entirely honest, he feels more than a little out of his depth. This 'Jek' squints at him suspiciously, then scoffs. “You always were too soft, Olag,” he says. “It'll get you killed someday.”

Tarrant's patience with being talked about like he's not even there wears thin quickly. “Look, it's not my fault I'm better looking than you, alright?”

Silence falls across the room, full of people watching this altercation. _Damn, should have known my pride would get me in trouble._ He is prepared for a fight, if it comes to that, but he'd really rather not – Gan knows these people, after all, and he doesn't want to have to apologise after his hanger-on.

But after a moment, the regular crowd start to snigger. Maybe they're all as sick of Jek's judgements as anyone.

Jek smirks. “Alright,” he says, “if your Alpha grade arse wants to play at living like us, you have to drink like us too. It's not the fine champagne and all you must be used to; might hit you hard.”

Clearly, he has some misconceptions about how often trainee officers are allowed to drink anything at all, lest it interfere with their piloting (which is not to say they don't, just that they only drink whatever they can smuggle in, which is rarely the highest quality stuff), but it doesn't seem worth arguing about. He laughs. “Really, that's your idea of a threat, offering to buy me a drink? Someone has to talk to you about how to seem intimidating.”

* * *

Admittedly the ale they have down in these parts _is_ stronger than what he's used to, but it's alright. Alcohol serves as the universal social lubricant you would expect, and Jek isn't so bad once you get talking to him properly, he just isn't the sort of man who trusts easily. Tarrant can respect that.

Gan remains by his side the whole evening, but Tarrant notes that he doesn't speak much, even as his friends ply Tarrant with drink and ask him as many questions as they can think of about being at the FSA – it seems none of them has ever met a pilot before, and the drunker they get the more it excites them. _The strong and silent type,_ Tarrant muses, chuckling to himself. He can't say that really surprises him.

Everything about this situation becomes easier as the evening progresses, except for the lighting. The dim bulbs above only grow dimmer through the night, making Tarrant squint to read the expressions of these strangers. After his third or fourth pint, the frustration boils over. “Alright, is it always so dark around here?” he asks. “Or have you done this for me especially?”

Jek, now nicely limbered up by how much he's had (Tarrant can't honestly say he was counting), laughs at that. “Only when there's not enough to go around,” he says. “Have a word to your friends at the FSA about it, 'cause when they're burning all the fuel in their spaceships, we're the ones who don't have no light for the next fortnight.”

“That's not–” Tarrant is all ready to argue, because he knows the rules: that each deck of the dome gets its own allocation of all resources, everything that is necessary, and whatever is left gets doled out afterwards. But, in this strange, dingy place, his beer-stained mind froths with questions he's never had before, such as who exactly defines 'necessary', and why. A hand grabs his thigh firmly, and Tarrant starts – that's Gan, still not saying anything, but keeping a grip on him regardless.

“Oh, leave the boy alone Jeks,” says one of the few women – Karek, he thinks her name was, a middle aged blonde in a blouse so low-cut she must be breaking at least three decency laws. Tarrant has some suspicions regarding her profession, but he doesn't want to pry. “Now tell us more about that time you blasted three pirate ships out of the sky.”

He grins, always happy to have an excuse to show of his achievements. Gan's hand stays atop him though, beneath the table where no-one can see, and Tarrant tries not to shiver as this man ties him down to Earth.

* * *

Sneaking back into the FSA dormitories while drunk is much more difficult than sneaking out of them while sober. The clang as they stumble down the metal ventilation shafts (which are much bigger than they need to be for practical purposes, but Tarrant has learned that questions like that are more trouble than they're worth) is painful to his ears, but Gan shows no fear and so he doesn't either. “Here we go,” Gan says, pushing him out of the darkness and into the light, back to the corridors of a proper dormitory that now seem so bright they make him flinch. “This is your room, right?”

The amount he drank is perhaps just now starting to hit Tarrant, so he only nods vaguely, his head nestled across Gan's broad shoulder despite not really being much smaller than him. He lets himself be pushed into the dull, humming room, and collapses onto his bed, curling up like a child while still fully clothed.

Behind him he can hear Gan start to move about, tidying the place up before he goes, perhaps just out of instinct. “Thank you,” he mutters into the synthetic fabrics, “you didn't have to see me home."

A second's pause, then Gan sighs fondly. “That's alright.” He must be able to move more quietly than Tarrant thought, because he is startled when he feels a strong hand sweep the curls away from his forehead. “I'm proud of you, you know.”

_I didn't do anything,_ Tarrant thinks, a strange inexplicable glimmer of guilt lurking at the back of his mind. He can't quite put it into words though. He opens his eyes to see Gan perched on the side of his bed, like the father from a storybook. “You don't sound like them,” he murmurs, a non sequitur if ever there was one.

Gan frowns, understandably confused. “Sorry?”

“Your friends. You don't sound like them.” Tarrant yawns, drunk and sleepy. “They all speak like – well, the way I always imagined Deltas must speak, really. You don't. I noticed it when I first met you. Why?”

Gan hesitates a moment. “My mother's fault, I'm afraid,” he says, twisting the covers between his thick fingers. Almost imperceptibly, he starts to slouch onto the bed. “She was born a Beta grade, you see, until her family were on the wrong side of some squabble. She always thought she could get us back if only she taught us right, how to speak, how to act, all that.”

Tarrant is dumbfounded. He knows of course relegation is always a possibility, theoretically. It's the boogeyman his mother used to use to scare him into behaving: if you don't brush your teeth after dinner you'll be relegated, if you don't pass your aeronautics exam you'll be relegated, if you don't make nice with Major Stravinsk you'll be relegated. But he's never known anyone it actually happened to before. Gan discussing it, so directly, makes that childish threat real in a way it never has been to him.

“I'm sorry.” Wits and reflexes both dulled by alcohol, he reaches out clumsily and squeezes Gan's bicep. “You – You deserve better.”

What he means by that, he has no idea, but it scarcely seems to matter. He means the gesture to be a brisk show of support, but he doesn't quite manage to let go, and so when he tries to fall back onto the mattress he ends up dragging Gan onto it with him, his head landing against the soft pillow, nose inches from Tarrant's own.

He smiles sadly and mutters under his breath: “Don't we all?”

Tarrant takes pause. He realises, again, that he's put himself in a compromising position, lying on his bed with this man he barely knows. It's not as if he has no idea how things might play from here, he remembers his days, and more specifically his nights, at the junior academy. But there was always some allowance given there, an understanding of the inevitability of adolescent hormones. This is different, he knows that.

Gan seems to know it too, guilt clouding his eyes. It doesn't suit him. “I should go,” he mutters away from Tarrant's chin.

“Wait.” Tarrant struggles to push himself up as Gan gets off the bed, the nausea from how much he drank just now hitting him properly. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, but the risk-taker in him has always wanted to do everything he shouldn't. “You don't have to.”

Gan pauses outside his door, smiling sadly at him. “I'm afraid I do.” Then he leaves, and Tarrant is stunned in his wake, before the door slams shut and he suddenly has to lean over and retch into his bin.

* * *

To his surprise, Tarrant actually enjoys teaching, albeit maybe not for quite the right reasons. Still, it's fun to show off how much he knows, and hilarious to watch Wood's eye twitch as he has to call Tarrant 'sir'.

“You do well with them,” a voice informs him after one of his classes, taking him by surprise.

“Major Stranax.” Tarrant grins at her broadly and shakes her hand. “Haven't seen you in awhile, I'm glad you're impressed – should I take this as a sign you're keeping an eye on me?”

The smile she gives him in return is more than a little forced. “Well, quite.” She bites her lip. “Tarrant, there are some things I would like – well, the administration has asked me – to talk to you about.”

Tarant folds his arms over his chest. “Like what?” He's certain there have been no errors in his teaching, that's for one thing.

She sighs. “It's about your relationship with – um, one of the janitors, here at the academy. What's his name... Olaf Something?”

“Olag Gan,” Tarrant tells her, dread settling in his stomach. What does she want with him and Gan? “What about him?”

Stranax grimaces, clearly no happier to be having this conversation than he is. “You've become rather close to him in recent weeks.”

Perhaps that's true. Tarrant isn't sure – things have been a little strange since that night Gan took him to the Delta quarters; he has half the sense that Gan is avoiding him, except he shows up every week to clean his room, on schedule, and Tarrant is always happy to see him, so he supposes they are still friends. “Maybe so,” he says, cool as he can manage. “Is there a rule against making friends with the lower grades?”

“Against making friends? No.” Tarrant doesn't understand what she's so worried about. It's not like he and Gan could get married. Tarrant knows the decency laws as well as anyone (and knows when they do and do not get enforced). “But I do wonder what sort of friendship requires him to share your bed.”

Tarrant blinks. There's only one thing she could be referring to there, but how on Earth does she know about it? “I'm sorry, have you been spying on me?”

To her credit, if that's the right word, Major Stranax does not miss a beat. “Of course you know the Academy employs a state of the art security system.”

He scoffs. “So that's a yes.” A dull mix of rage and terror fills him at the thought everything he's done since he came to the Academy at twelve years old might have been recorded. Yes, he knew they had a 'state of the art security system', but he never really thought about what that meant. Tarrant has never minded cameras before – but they were always out in the open before, watching the corridors, a silent reminder to any who might even think of straying. He doesn't like the thought he's been lied to.

“Tarrant, we all know how talented you are,” Stranax tells him, clearly flattering him to help him ignore the violation. Shame is, under other circumstances it might just work. “You have a very bright future ahead of you. It would be a pity to see you throw that away. Like your brother.”

That stops everything in the room. No-one has dared mention Deeta to him for years. His mother has forbidden him from ever speaking the name again. He doesn't know how to react.

He shakes his head, forces himself to remember this isn't about Deeta, not really. It's about Gan. “I haven't _done_ anything,” he insists, which comes out sounding like he is trying too hard to defend himself. “What, do you think Gan is going to lure me off planet? The humble janitor must have more connections than he lets on.”

“No, that's not it, but we wouldn't want this dalliance to compromise your... understanding, of the role of a Federation pilot.” Tarrant rolls his eyes. What exactly is his 'understanding', then?

Stranax bites her lip nervously. “Of course, if _you_ weren't responsible, if he were the one pushing advances you felt uncomfortable with and threatened by... well that would be a lot simpler to deal with.”

Tarrant looks back at her, aghast. “What, you want me to accuse him of a crime he hasn't committed, just to make myself look better?” He wonders what she thinks she taught him here – does she really expect him to be so immoral? He looks around the room slowly. “This is meant to be my classroom, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good,” he says. “Then get out.”

Major Stranax looks pained. “Del, I am trying to help you–”

“Lucky for me then, that I am so very bad at accepting help! Now get out.”

* * *

Tarrant returns to his rooms in a burn of frustration, emotions bubbling under his skin that he has never quite dared indulge before, but he has never been one to avoid his feelings out of cowardice.

“Are you alright?

Tarrant double takes, surprised to find he isn't alone in his room. “Gan.” _It isn't Tuesday,_ he thinks. Gan must have come to see him especially, and something in Tarrant's belly leaps at the thought.

Then he remembers to answer the question.

“Well, I suppose it's all relative.” Tarrant isn't sure how he can explain the situation to Gan. Out of the corner of his eye he glances toward the ceiling, searching for cameras he cannot see but must be there. Hopefully, they don't record sound.

Gan doesn't say anything, he just stands there, inching toward Tarrant so slowly you can hardly accuse him of doing it on purpose, and Tarrrant finds himself inextricably drawn to give him what he asks for. “One of my supervisors,” he tries to keep his voice casual, as if this is any ordinary complaint about work someone might share after the fact. “She came to talk to me about my behaviour. Apparently, she doesn't like what I've been doing recently.” He bites his lip. It is in everyone's best interest for him to keep this all to himself, but apparently he can't help it. “You. They don't like how much time I've been spending with you.”

Instantly, Gan puts his hand out and gently holds Tarrant's shoulder. Tarrant appreciates the gesture, but when he turns his head to look at the older man, Gan suddenly changes his mind, drawing his hand back and averting his eyes anxiously. “Maybe they have a point,” he mumbles.

“...What?” Tarrant is left stumbling. He thought they were friends; does Gan not feel the same way? In a drunken blur he recalls that night after Gan took him to the lower levels. Did he scare him off? “Are you angry at me?”

Gan looks startled he would even think such a thing. “No, no of course not,” he is quick to reassure. “It's just...” He sits down on Tarrant's bed with a heavy sigh, and Tarrant follows him, puzzled. “I don't want to get you in trouble, that's all.”

Tarrant smirks. “Well, I wouldn't worry about that. Getting in trouble is what I'm good at.”

“Yes, but you ought to be getting in trouble for the right reasons.”

He frowns. Yet again, he feels like Gan is discussing something somewhat beyond him. “What do you mean?”

Gan hesitates again. Words don't come easily to him, and yet he always tries. “Since we first met, I realised... you're not like these other trainee pilots.”

Tarrant blinks. He's always liked to be told he's special, but he's not sure he understands why right now. “How so?”

“Because you're a good person.” Gan shrugs. “You can be thoughtless, and arrogant sometimes, but at heart you are, you're good. I don't know how that came to be, and I know this place will do its best to beat that out of you, but... the universe needs good people. I don't want you to throw away your chance as a Federation officer just for me.”

It feels like Tarrant is left reeling far more often than he can be reasonably expected to cope with. It's not like he's never been told he was good before – for not playing up at one of his mother's society soirees, for getting every single shot on a space battle simulation, for not mentioning Deeta's name in front of his assessors. In his life, _good_ has always been roughly synonymous with _useful._ He's never known anyone like Gan, who could just see good in him, regardless of what he might do.

Major Stranax's words come back to him. _We wouldn't want this dalliance to compromise your... understanding, of the role of a Federation pilot._ When things become clear, it's like the sun peeking out from behind the clouds that first day he was allowed out of the dome, when he was only fourteen. Of course they don't want him around Gan. Gan makes him feel like he would be worth just as much if he wasn't a Federation pilot. More, even.

“What if...” He looks around warily for the cameras that must be watching them. He knows it's treason that's just about to slip from his lips, but again he can't stop himself. “What if being a good person, and being a Federation officer... they can't be done together? What should I choose?”

Gan's brows raise in surprise that he would dare ask the question, but then he answers, like it's the simplest thing in the world: “Well, I would always choose you.”

Blood rushes to Tarrant's cheeks, and he can't help but grin. “Well, thank you for that.” When he meets Gan's eyes again he sees a faint smile playing on his lips, and out of nowhere he thinks:

_I want to kiss him._

The thought comes out of nowhere, but not so out of nowhere as it should. Something has been lingering at the back of his mind ever since that night Gan lay upon his bed, completely innocently, if not much longer. Thoughts and acts quickly excused away, chalked up to one anomaly or other, never requiring reckoning with. Tarrant has never thought much about how the Federation classifies right from wrong, as he has always neatly dodged the idea that he might be on the wrong side.

But this moment has the air of everything being stripped back. He wants to kiss Gan, and say to hell with anyone who might tell him not to.

Before Tarrant can act on any of his self-destructive impulses however, Gan checks his watch. “Damn, I'm running late.” His big, heavy form is suddenly in a rush to get out the door, a mildly amusing sight. “You distract me, you know.”

Tarrant laughs as he leaves. “You too,” he says and finds himself alone, cheeks flushed and belly nervous.

* * *

Despite it all, nothing really changes for the next little while. He continues his lecturing position, mostly unbothered by the higher ups. He carries on meeting with Gan when he can. He meets with the captain who will be recruiting for a new mission after they graduate, something Jarvik, and he seems quite impressed with what he sees. Worries still linger at the back of Tarrant's mind, but on the whole, everything seems on the up and up.

Then one night, Gan tells him: “I'd like you to come home with me. For dinner.”

Tarrant is surprised a little, but why should he be? He and Gan have been friends for weeks. Months, almost. He has already embroiled himself deeper in Gan's life than is safe or reasonable, why should having dinner with his confidante be anything new?

Gan looks at him with those deep, dark eyes. Tarrant can't believe he ever thought he wasn't handsome. Alright, he'll never star in his own vizfilm, but sometimes when Gan looks at him it's like being hit by the night sky itself. “Is that alright?”

Tarrant laughs, neatly concealing how the request seems to shake him to the core. “Why, of course. I'll have to have some faith that your cooking won't poison me, but I think I can manage that.”

Lips pursed together, Gan gazes at him some more. It almost looks like he wants to say something, but he changes his mind at the last moment. “Well.” He stands up, reaches out squeezes Tarrant's shoulder firmly. “I've got work to get you. I'll come back for you tonight, alright?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

* * *

Uncharacteristically, Tarrant spends the next few hours pacing back and forth in his room, nerves running amok. He doesn't know why he's so nervous. He's had dinner more days than not in his life, it's not a new concept. Alright, having dinner in Gan's quarters is new, but not that new; he's been out with Gan before, he's had dinner with friends before. There's no reason any of this should feel like such a massive step unless...

_Unless he's taking me home to fuck me._

Tarrant shakes his head. There's no good reason to think that. After all, Gan has been spending time in his rooms for weeks now, why would he have to take him somewhere else to fuck him?

(He eyes the ceiling he's still not found the cameras in warily. _Why indeed._ )

But stupid as it is, Tarrant can't force the thought away once it's come to him, leaving a blush burning beneath his cheeks.

Of course, the problem is not that there's a chance, however minute, that Gan might want him. At least, not entirely. If Gan wanted sex, it would be easy enough to say no, and that would be the end of it. Tarrant knows him well enough by now to know he's not the sort to force the matter.

But he doesn't think he would say no. He doesn't think he could say no. Because _he_ wants it, really quite badly, and that thought is terrifying.

He digs his nails into his thigh, forcing himself not to show the anxiety – if the cameras pick that up, there will be yet more questions. He can be brave about this. Rules are only rules, after all.

“Are you alright?” Tarrant jumps in alarm. Gan is back long before he thought he would be; he must have been lost in his thoughts for such awhile. His hand on Tarrant's shoulder is heavy, square, possessive.

Tarrant swallows the lump in his throat and nods, grinning his most winning grin. “After you, sir.”

* * *

Following Gan down into the Delta section feels different this time, when it is not so late and there is more light to be had. It gets darker the further they sink into the grey metal, and it feels like descending into the underworld, not that such myths are allowed nowadays. He wants to reach out and take Gan's hand again, but he doesn't have an excuse for it this time.

“Are you alright?” Tarrant's teeth chattering echoes from the clanging walls, and even Gan can't help but notice. It's very embarrassing, but Gan isn't the sort to make fun.

He shakes his head. “It's just a little cold in here, that's all,” he lies. He's burning up so much he doesn't have a clue whether it's cold or not, but Gan nods in understanding anyway.

“It's not far now. Come along.”

It's a relief when they finally make it out of the maintenance shafts and into the corridor outside Gan's rooms. Tarrant doesn't know what he's expecting.

The place is the same dull grey as the way here, and rather small and cramped to boot. However it's very neat, furnished with knitted rugs, doilies, and ceramic knickknacks. He smiles to himself. He thought Gan would be the houseproud type.

“Olag?” He's startled out of his thoughts by a woman appearing from behind a door, when he didn't expect anyone to be here. She seems less surprised to see him than he is to see her. “Ah, you must be the Del boy he keeps going on about.” She reaches out and shakes his hand firmly. She is much the same heavy build as Gan, but much shorter, with closely cropped dark hair. His sister, perhaps?

Tarrant looks toward Gan, who shuffles foot to foot uncomfortably. “Ah, Del,” he says, not quite meeting Tarrant's eyes. “This is Maxine. My wife.”

“...Oh.”

Maxine seems oblivious to the shock this has given him. “I have to say, you're as handsome as he said you were.”

Tarrant is reeling. _He's married?_ Why didn't he know that? Why didn't Gan tell him?

From the way Gan avoids looking at him, Tarrant would wager there's a reason he didn't tell him.

“So, should I set another place for dinner?” Maxine asks.

Tarrant pulls himself away. “Ah, no.” He doesn't have anything like an excuse, but he can't stay here now. “I have – an assessment, I'm afraid. I only popped in to say hello.”

Gan frowns, concerned, and reaches out for him. “Del–”

But Tarrant is out of there, back into the ugly grey metal and all the debris of reality.

* * *

By the time he makes it back to his room, his shock has turned to fury. How could Gan do this to him? Didn't he realise the dangers? Tarrant was ready to risk it all for him, he was ready to have sex with him, and for what – to be the rich, pretty fucktoy to a miserable, beaten down marriage?

In a fury, he knocks a textbook from his desk onto the floor. Then he stops, and looks up to the ceiling. He's being watched, he remembers. He can't let them know how mad he is. If they know he's mad, they'll wonder why, and then what would he do?

Suddenly exhausted, Tarrant crawls into his narrow, white, government-issued bed and hides his face beneath the covers. He doesn't cry though. People like him aren't meant to.

* * *

Tarrant rues his situation for the next few days. Gan doesn't come to see him again, which doesn't surprise him – Gan wouldn't come to see him now normally – but it does give him time to resent the situation further. What, can Gan not even bring himself to face him? He was the one who invited him for dinner, without bothering to tell him the truth. The consequences are all on his head.

He is in the middle of boring, pointless, exhausting paperwork when footsteps come into his lecture theatre, intruding upon his rage. “Tarrant?”

He expects it to be Major Stranax, come to hassle him about his inappropriate friendships yet again (and god knows what he'd tell her now). But it isn't. It's Wood.

Tarrant is surprised. Wood is still in his class, he has to be, but he hasn't stopped resenting the new position with a fury. Most of the time he just sulks as far out of Tarrant's sight as he can; he never actually talks in class.

At the moment, Tarrant does not have enough left in him to find their little rivalry amusing. “What do you want?” he asks with a complete lack of professionalism.

Wood doesn't miss a beat at his curt greeting, just smirks and deposits a thick folder on his desk. “Higher-ups put me onto this,” he says. “Couple whose tax returns don't quite add up. In theory they have officials to deal with that, but it was hinted to me they might want to send me in early, see if I can sort things out without all the fuss.”

Tarrant opens the folder, unnerved by the plain woman staring up at him in black and white. _Maxine Kozoko Gan._ Sure enough, he turns the page and there is Gan's fat, ugly face, looking as innocent as ever.

He swallows hard. “Why are you showing me this?” he asks.

Wood doesn't bother to hide his eye roll. “You're my immediate superior. I need you to sign off before I go on any official mission, no matter how sneaky.” Tarrant bites the inside of his cheek. When he doesn't answer for a long time, Wood prods him. “Well, can I go?”

Tarrant stares into the folder. These paper files are so old-fashioned; they feel real like nothing else does.

“Fine,” he says, and signs below Gan's name.

He feels guilty the second his pen leaves the paper, but why should he interfere? Why should Gan be anything to do with him?

* * *

Something is wrong.

No-one says anything, but there are whispers, rumours, a constant rumble of anxiety filling the halls until a voice comes over the loudspeaker, instructing all students to return to their rooms and await debriefing.

Tarrant has never taken being stuck well. He obeys the instruction, but as the minutes drag into hours with yet no information, he can't help pushing his door to see if he can find out what's going on. Except the door is sealed shut.

Panic rises quicker than he can force it back down. That's probably just a security measure to do with why ever they're stuck here, but Tarrant can't fight off the suspicion that maybe it's just _him_ locked in, that they've finally decided he's not worth the trouble he's been causing, that his dallying about with a married man he never really knew as well as he thought he did really will be the end of him, one way or another.

Then after god knows how long, the voice comes back over the intercom. “Attention students. We regret to inform you a student was murdered this afternoon on official Federation business. The student's name was Trissom Wood. The suspect responsible is currently in custody. We hope this does not interfere with your preparation for your exams.”

Maybe this will be the end of him after all, because Tarrant feels like he's been pierced through with laser fire.

* * *

At first, he tries to convince himself it couldn't possibly be Gan. He _knows_ Gan, he's never met a man more kind and gentle in his life. He wouldn't kill the man sent to check up on his taxes, would he?

But when it makes it to the evening news broadcast, that is Gan's face splashed across the screen, brows furrowed into a murderous look. They mention he was a janitor at one of the official academies, and Tarrant feels sick while he listens to people whisper how he should never have been allowed near anyone, the screening programs should have identified him at birth, and hopefully he'll spend the rest of his life rotting on Cygnus Alpha.

If Gan killed Wood then he only did so because Tarrant let him, because he sent Wood to that address, in a fit of rage and spite. Responsibility isn't something he's used to, captain's training or not. He's never felt burdened with anything he couldn't soar above, if he only tried hard enough. But this he knows he will not escape, no matter how high he flies.

* * *

“I want to see him.”

The guard in front of these metal walls seems decidedly unimpressed. No doubt, he has to deal with people begging him to let them see their loved ones all the time. “This suspect is awaiting trial on a first grade murder charge. Orders are no-one is to see him but his appointed legal counsel. I am in charge of making sure no-one does so.”

Tarrant bares his teeth venomously. “And _I_ am a trainee Federation pilot, on track to be appointed lieutenant on a ship once I graduate, with deep connections among Star Command hierarchy. I suggest you let me in.”

It's ironic to be leaning on his position when he knows just how much trouble he will be in if his superiors find out he was ever here, but the guard isn't to know that, is he?

He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Fine.” Tarrant isn't sure he's convinced him, so much as he's decided Tarrant isn't worth the trouble. “You have ten minutes. Don't dawdle.”

Idleness isn't something Tarrant has ever been accused of before. He strides past the guard into yet another dull grey hallway, walls covered in sheets of opaque white glass. He looks around in confusion. How is he meant to find Gan in here?

“Gan?”

A pause, and all of a sudden one of the sheets of glass turns translucent, revealing Gan caged in by metal bars. “Tarrant?” He sounds like he's just woken up, and isn't sure if he isn't still dreaming. “What are you doing here?”

Tarrant rushes over to the correct cell. “I came to see you,” he says, like it's obvious. “They said you killed someone. That can't be true, is it?”

Gan looks down toward the ground, deeply shamefaced. Eventually, he nods. Tarrant is stunned. “He killed my woman.”

Tarrant is even more stunned. “What?”

Gan looks up. “They didn't mention her, did they?” He scoffs bitterly. Bitterness isn't an expression Tarrant has ever seen on Gan before. “I thought they might claim I killed the both of them, but that would raise too many questions, wouldn't it? So they'll just pretend she never existed.” His voice breaks on the last word.

Reeling, Tarrant does his damnedest to follow along. “What happened?”

“That – man – showed up at our house while I was out. Apparently there was some trouble with our taxes. Like we had enough money to pay more tax. But he said – he could sort it all out if she would give him... give him what he wanted.”

_Oh god no._ The knot in Tarrant's throat tightens until it feels like he's choking on it. He knows the official FSA Code of Conduct, the importance it places on not exploiting their power, not taking advantage of the vulnerable. But he also knows – knew – Wood not to give a damn about any sort of honour, official or otherwise. Can he honestly claim he's surprised?

“She said no, so he tried to force the matter. She fought back, and he killed her. I found him standing over her body, and...”

Gan recounts the events with as little emotion as possible, but he's tearing up by the end anyway. Tarrant tries to reach out for him, only for his fingers to collide with the glass still there, just invisible. “Gan, I–”

“Thank you for coming,” Gan blurts out. “I'm going to plead guilty, I have to. I don't think we'll ever see each other again.” Indeed not. Tarrant knows what the punishments for troop killers are like; Cygnus Alpha is probably the best he can hope for. That's never struck him as unjust until this moment. “I – wanted to say sorry, about the last time we met. I want–”

He cuts himself off and averts his eyes, looking ashamed again. “I was tempted by you,” he mutters. “I tried telling myself I wasn't, but I was. When I invited you over, I thought, well if I introduce him to the wife, that proves it, that I'm not doing anything wrong, that we were just–” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I can't help thinking, I'm being punished; if I didn't let this happen, maybe she wouldn't have–”

“Gan, it's not your fault.” Like that, Tarrant's conscience snaps on him. “It's mine. I let him go.”

Something in the air changes. Gan stops crying, and stands up straight, revealing just how big and imposing he really is. “What?”

Tarrant can't back out now. “I was Wood's superior officer. Acting superior officer, anyway. I had to give him permission to go on that mission. I-I sent him after you.” He tries to say it as clearly as possible, but he falters at the end.

Gan's face doesn't change, but Tarrant can see the fury trembling through him. “Why?”

“I was angry! I thought it'd scare you a little. I felt like you'd lied to me, like you used me. I didn't think he'd–”

“Why not?”

Tarrant is struck dumb. That's a good question. He knew who Wood was, spoiled, selfish and cruel. Why would he think sending him after anyone couldn't possibly go wrong?

“I – I made a mistake,” is all he can say. Really, there are no words.

Gan shakes his head. “No. No you didn't.” Tarrant is confused. “ _I_ made a mistake. I thought you were different, but you're not, are you? Just another spoiled, selfish little boy who thinks he can have whatever he wants, and throws a tantrum when he can't have it. How did you even get in here? Did you threaten the guard, tell him how important you were and if he didn't let you in, you could make things very hard for him?”

Tarrant averts his eyes, shamefaced. Yes, that's exactly how he got in. He didn't even think twice.

Above him, Gan scoffs. “You'd better go,” he says. “I have a trial to prepare for.”

“Gan–”

But like that the glass turns white again, locking Gan off from him forever.

* * *

“I want to testify at the trial.”

Major Stranax looks exhausted, like she hasn't slept all week. “Don't be stupid, Tarrant,” she mutters, apparently unfazed by him bursting into her office at 0100 hours. “You know there hasn't been public testimony at trials for years.”

No, of course there hasn't, too many embarrassing stouches over political crimes saw to that. Tarrant rolls his eyes. “Fine, then I'll talk to the investigators,” he says. “I have to do something. I'm not letting Gan get sent off to Cygnus Alpha without trying to help–”

“Tarrant, you don't know that man.”

Tarrant is taken aback, but he stands firm. “Not as well as I thought I did, maybe, but I know him well enough to know he wouldn't kill without–”

“ _You don't know that man!_ ” Stranax's eyes are almost red with anger. Tarrant is stunned into silence. He's known her for years and she's always been gentle and professional. He's never seen her like this. “Every trace of evidence you ever met him has been erased. Now, if you don't want to be erased with it, I suggest you keep your damn mouth shut.”

Reeling, Tarrant barely notices he's being threatened, as he puts together what little information he has. His superiors wiped any information about him and Gan from the record, why would they do that? Why would they think he is at all relevant to what happened? Unless they knew. Unless somehow this was about him...

“You did this, didn't you?” He rounds on Stranax with a vengeance. “That's why you sent Wood out in the first place. One way or another, you meant to get Gan out of the way. Well, I'm sure you're all very pleased with yourselves.”

Stranax looks down at her desk. “Don't be ridiculous,” she mutters. “I don't have the clearance to authorise something like that.”

Well, that's as good as a confession. He should be very flattered, that the Federation thought him such a valuable resource they thought to intervene to stop his Delta boyfriend leading him astray. “But you didn't stop it?”

She meets his eye again, and for a moment she looks so terribly sad. “What could I do?”

Tarrant swallows his fury and looks away. She's right, of course. What could she do? No doubt this order came from much higher up. If she tried to say no, she'd only get herself killed, and while Tarrant knows she is fond of him, she can't be that fond.

It feels like a dam breaking, like he is finally letting himself know all the facts that have lingered at the back of his mind for years, but he has always known to keep tightly under wraps to live the life he dreamed of as a kid. It's funny – he's been taught since he was five years old that the FSA is the route to wealth and fame and _power_ , but he has never felt more powerless.

“I'm going to do _something_ ,” he insists, more to himself than to her. “I can't just let him–” But what can he do? Stranax is right, the authorities would have no problem destroying him like so many computer files, if he spoke up and what he said didn't align with their version of reality. Maybe he should do it anyway, sacrifice himself on principle, but it would be pointless. Gan is going to spend the rest of his life suffering, because of him, and there is nothing he can do about it.

“No, you won't.” All of a sudden Stranax is up from her desk and by his side, her hand warm and maternal on his arm. “Come on, Del, I've been teaching you since you were twelve years old. I know you. You're many things, but you're not stupid.”

Tarrant pulls away from her sharply, stares a second, and then laughs. “Well, I have to thank you for your faith in me,” he says. “But to be entirely honest with you, I have no idea what I am.”

* * *

Life on a Federation battle cruiser is somehow exactly like, and nothing like he imagined it to be. They shipped him off as soon as they could, better he not be left on Earth to cause trouble. Maybe they thought if they just gave him everything he wanted, he would forget all about Gan, and the misery it took to get him here.

He _should_ be happy. He is a lieutenant in Star Command, what he's been training for since he was twelve. Captain Jarvik says he could make his status by the end of the space year – and it's not as if he dislikes his captain. Alright, Jarvik is a little crude, but he chooses to look on the bright side of that. Jarvik is old-fashioned, with an old-fashioned sense of honour seemingly quite uncommon in these modern forces, and Tarrant will believe that until he is proved wrong. Alright, maybe he has a little crush.

...But it's empty, like so many things are to him now. Jarvik isn't Gan, because who ever could be? His brain is just trying desperately to compensate for what he lost, what he let slip through his fingers, and failing.

He feels hollow in his officer blacks, strutting through metal corridors like he could stand behind the ideals of this uniform if you asked him too. They have him training to drop bombs from the sky once they reach whatever planet they're actually headed to, and it shouldn't feel so different from simulation exercises back at the academy, but it does. It feels like he is practising to rain death upon the innocent, and he doesn't know he has the stomach for that.

Once upon a time, he wouldn't even have questioned those orders, he would have just assumed that he was doing good by spreading the Federation's might, because the Federation was good for all people on all planets, eventually. But he can't believe that anymore, and it makes him sick that he ever did.

Deeta knew. Deeta always knew, that's why he ran, because he would rather spend the rest of his life as a man on the run than as a cog in the machine, a weapon for a regime he despised.

Sometimes he sits at the controls of the fighter capsule, and thinks about how easy it would be to just take it and run. He has no idea where he would go after that, but it would be so _easy_.

* * *

When he first washed up on the Liberator, he thought it was fate. He'd heard about the mutiny on the _London,_ Blake and his crew of rebels giving the Federation what for. He might never have had the guts to defect if he didn't think there was somewhere he could go. He imagined, with a childlike naivety he thought he had left behind, that he would find Gan again, that he could make him understand just how sorry he was for what happened to Maxine, and Gan would forgive him, so they could start afresh in a universe that wasn't so determined to make it impossible for them.

He didn't find out Gan was dead until weeks later, when Vila mentioned it in the middle of one of his drunken ramblings. Gan died and no-one ever reported it, because why would they? He wasn't Blake, the revolutionary hero giving hope to the oppressed masses. He wasn't anyone important. Tarrant feels sick when he thinks Gan died just like Maxine did: as if he had never existed.

Tarrant has never told the others he knew Gan. Why would he? He doesn't trust any of them enough to reveal that vulnerability. Besides, they probably wouldn't believe him, they'd just think he was trying to look more like he belongs on this ship than he does.

Vila doesn't like him. Tarrant hasn't given him any reason to: he knows Gan would not be proud of him there; he's been as much of a bully as Wood was, if not more so. He can't seem to help himself. Maybe it's just bad habit, but also, he resents Vila, because Vila is the one who still keeps bringing Gan up, who talks about him like he knew him, like he loved him. Tarrant has always been the jealous type, and maybe that can't be fixed.

He stares at the stars from Liberator's flight deck while he's piloting. The stars are always changing, but you never know until years after the fact. Maybe he can change, maybe he can't. Either way, it feels pointless. He can't undo the past.


End file.
